


Ahimsa

by ShikiSha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 80s-90s, AU, Action/Adventure, Ahimsa, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Utopia, Anthropology, Brief mentioned racism, Canon Snape?, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Dynamics, Comfort, Coping Mechanisms, Crazy Dumbledore, Crazy Ideas, Crystals, Dark Magic, Dark/Grey/Light/White Magics, Do not quote me, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family, Fantasy, Fix-It, Fluff, Folklore, Folklore-freeform, For Psychology!, For Want of a Nail, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Gender Neutral?, Grey Magic, Harry Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hindu Character, Hinduism, Honesty, Honesty Policy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic Mythology, Magic mythos, Magical world dynamics, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Minor Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Misguided Dumbledore, Mix of creatures may be mentioned, Mix of rituals/techniques/superstitions, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, OC, Optimism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Politics? maybe, Prejudice, Racism, Rituals, SI, Self Insert Character - Freeform, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Sexism, Slow Plot Build, Snape is Snape, Souls, Spirits, Spiritual, Storytelling, Superstition, Time period compliant, Utopian, Utopian eventually!, WILL say ending sad warning when sure?, Well-Meaning Dumbledore, White Magic, Wicca, Worldbuilding, Young parent prejudice, anthropological undertones, non-violence!fic, ritualism, single parent, single parent prejudice, soon:, sort of, unusual family dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShikiSha/pseuds/ShikiSha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is a non-violence!fic, with a heavy influence in attitude from my culture, and the fact that it's an SI-fic should help that. Finally, be warned: as I literally had a day to write the first chapter, there will probably be edited versions of this put up/updated. Just to make this clear, this is a Divergent SI fanfiction. (Originally) For SI Week 2016, Tumblr.</p><p> I have wanted to write a pacifist/anti-violence Harry for awhile now. I will be taking my time with this fic - chapters slower than the other one, so fair warning. Though, note, that whilst this is tagged (excessively?) as it is, an indulgent fic, I also will not abandon any story that I start. Also, there is no beta!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A Writing Exercise – for SI Week 2016, Tumblr. [short title: Ahimsa]
> 
>  **NOTE BEGINNING:** So this is a **non-violence!fic** , with a _heavy influence_ in attitude from my culture, and the fact that it's an SI-fic should help that. I am also unsure if this will be continued, but I have wanted to write a pacifist/anti-violence Harry. I want to try and make sure this does not become an In-Name-Only fic, but a Divergent fiction. I would also like to make it a happier interpretation of the story-line (if it gets that far) – but understand it will not be possible the whole way through…however a more modern/different cultural-influence might make a bit of an impact. Nevertheless, I would like to point out that I have a real want to make a utopian-esque fiction piece, simply because there is so much sadness/negativity in the world and I'd like to see a happier interpretation…But whilst I will fight that for this fiction piece, if it does swing that way – please feel free to point that out. Feedback will be appreciated! Genre-wise, I think this will start out very small in some aspects; a raising-Harry fic, in fact. Another point- I am trying to get the context right, but I am a 90s kid – I have sources from the 80s, but that's all.
> 
> This is a self-insert fiction but I'm not sure if I want my SI to know about the storyline already or to just respond as I would in this scenario… Finally, be warned: as I literally have a day to write this, there will probably be a better/edited version of this put up. So, you can read that instead. Just to make this clear, this is a **Divergent SI fanfiction**
> 
>  A final note (sorry): my faith, Hinduism, is often described as pluralistic, so someone could also be Hindu and read something presented in here as 'wrong' or different- or someone who was taught religious education/studies/other variations, may think so; I am not the sole voice of Hinduism. It is a faith and lifestyle, with many many differing practises. (So don't take this as the only correct way)
> 
> **NOTE ENDING.**

Harry remembers the loud bad noise. It _hurt_. There was a loud crying in his ears afterwards, and they hurt lots. He thought there should be more mess, and sad and angry people 'round him, and it grew inside his whole body like a filling air balloon or a big wash of water like the sea – until it suddenly went. But when he looked 'round because maybe he _did a bad thing again Boy_... there was no Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon.

Harry really started crying then, because he didn't know where he was, he was tired and his ears _hurted_ , in big harsh sobs.  
  


*****

On December 17th, 1983 whilst Harrods, and the surrounding street filled with Christmas shoppers, in one part of West London was being evacuated, on another street holiday goers- often families themselves, found it easy to spot the small lad standing by himself, clothes too big for the chill overcast weather, covered in soot and crying his poor little eyes out.

He was promptly approached by the closer families and surrounded. The parents and adults exchanged brief looks. Some looked about for his family members, or listened out for any distressed parents calling for a child. They hastily pulled nosy children back, he could be hurt. Someone pushed through the silent pause, a middle-aged Indian woman, dressed in long coat and boots like many others. She approached the child with a cautious look around at the other adults, like for permission. When no one stopped her, she talked gently to the boy, comforting him. Seeing that someone had gone to the boy, the adults talked in hushed arguments on what to do and picked up.

Harry looked at the girl who crouched in front of him from between his curled fingers. He was cold. She looked…a little like Aunt Petunia did sometimes when Dudley fell over. She smiled at him gently. It made the skin around her big eyes crinkle together. When she spoke her voice was high but scratchy. 'Hiya, little one,' she said. She started to take off her bright fuzzy scarf, 'it's going to be OKAY now, alright?' She slowly wraps her scarf, wool, around his shoulders and then his neck and over his head. She rubs over his ears with her hands gently. She does not look like she's going to cry anymore. Her brown eyes look at him, 'my name is Namita'. Harry can't help his surprise, his eyes open wide and his mouth maybe opens but just a little, it's just so _weird_. Nobody talks to him like her. Nobody talks to _him_...Harry looked at her face some more. _She wasn't showing mean-eyes at him_ , he thought with no small amount of awe. Or lookin' like he was bad and made her tummy all swirly and sick.

Harry felt fear shiver through him. Is the nice lady gonna go now? And then he sees real happiness is in her eyes at that, 'yes, its different right? Naa-mee-thah. Namita.'

She looks at him some more, and says calmly, 'what is your name? Not that' she smiles again, 'I don't really _really_ ' her voice goes higher on really, it's fun, ' -like calling you little one, but you have a name, right? What is it love?'

Harry feels tired and lost and she's been nice, so maybe she won't be mean when he tells her, so he says '…Harry'. It comes out quiet and hissy, like a wind breeze. He instinctively ducks his head into the warm scarf, pushing his glasses up a bit.

A soft weight touches his head. He looks up, it's _her arm_. She pats his head gently, smiles and says 'that's a lovely name.' She looks a little _shy_ when she says, 'it's nice to meet you, Harry'. She puts her hand out again, like this is serious business, and Harry shakes her hand. Her hands are so large, and the big palms are warm. She doesn't let go. Looking at him, Harry, she asks, 'you look cold? Would you like a cuddle, Harry? I promise my cuddles aren't too bad.' She looks hopeful. Harry supposes he could maybe try. Aunt Petunia never gives him hugs, but he's seen them before. She pulls him gently by his hand to her, her other arm going around to wrap around him, along his shoulders and back. Harry puts his head on the middle of her chest, her head is on his head. Harry thinks he is a little warmer. 'Is this okay Harry?'

A big part of Harry has been sleeping until now, and suddenly it's like he can think properly again, from when it changed and _a big part of him wanted her to stay with him_ and all his feelings come back. Harry nods and starts sniffing and crying and he is so tired , this is so nice. Why can't he have this? He wants cuddles and this lady to give them lots. Harry stops crying. It's so comfy. He pulls on her open coat side, and the lady opens her coat and wraps it around him. 'There, there, little one,' she says softly, rocking him side to side a little. 'It will be okay' she whispers, swallowing. Harry can hear her gulp. She rubs his back in circles. It warms him. Harry rubs his cold nose and face into her jumper. The murmurs fade further into the background.

They stay like this for a little while. Then, 'Harry, sweetie,' she whispers against his ear, moving her position, 'are you hurting anywhere? Do you have any ouch-es, or pain?'

Harry feels sleepy now, but shakes his head no. Because not really. This is much better. 'Okay, I am going to pick you up now, okay?'

'Okay', Harry yawns, he puts his face sideways on her shoulder when she picks him up, still wrapped in her coat. Harry goes to sleep holding her soft jumper.  
  


*****

Namita picked up the little boy whose weight is barely there with an ache in her chest. All she has to do is shift him up a little; he's so small and light. Namita stops that train of thought right there, for now, because tears do no good now. Hush hush. She supports his upper back with one hand and carries him with her other hand against her hip. She looks around at the other parents. Some have left from the back.

A man steps forward, and presumably his wife. 'We've called the police, they should be over soon.'

'Apparently there was an incident around the corner so all the coppers were called over there.'

'- Yeah, all the Brass are there right now', another man confirms grimly, mustache bristling.

Namita licked her teeth and glanced down at the little tot. 'Well, they're taking too long,' she murmured. 'It's been about ten minutes, and I need to get this little one checked on.' Louder she called out, 'tell the Brass sorry for me, yeah? We'll head over to the Met now. Anyone want to come with, who feels they can help with?'

There was a brief silence as all conferred adults left –others had popped off once things were being sorted, and seemed to be under way; citing other kids needing in, or others back home waiting, and needing to get Christmas food and shopping home.

In the end there were about twelve adults around still focused on the situation.

'…Alright; I'd bett'r do then, an' come with?' said a middle to elderly aged man, wearing a pea coat and a newsboy cap.

So off we headed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the SI makes a decision from a combination of religious, ethical, moral and logical reasoning, we find out 'What Happens Next?' with Harry and for that matter, if - does the SI know the story?
> 
> "The first step toward success is taken when you refuse to be a captive of the environment in which you first find yourself." --Mark Caine  
> Our SI makes a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers/Warnings: Not this chapter?
> 
> Reminder: this is a non-violence!fic, with a heavy influence in attitude from my faith, and culture based off of it(which is debatable...such as some think that the caste system is religious: it's not, but the debate is whether it's included anyway or not. It should not be, is not worldwide excluding India, insofar as I am aware), which is pluralistic; I also was not raised in India, so there is also opportunity, for comparison of social norms presented (sometimes: excused) in light of this faith, and where possible (everywhe-) adaptation. Which is a big part of the culture/faith, incidentally! :D 
> 
> NOTE BEGINNING:
> 
> (1) This chapter was hard to write, to decide on. I am researching for the following chapters, and this quote, well, is relevant (written above, see Summary). 
> 
> (2) This chapter, but not in all chapters, things are explained and sometimes context is included, in the chapter. Other times there will be endnotes with the context, research or anything further - as it can meddle too much with tone or pace, so. :) 
> 
> Edit 1# : 02/03/17. A new chapter will also be posted this week - don't worry!
> 
> Edit 2#: 22/11/17. I posted a new chapter yesterday!
> 
> Edit 3#@ 02/07/18: Still unhappy with this chapter. But some parts are okay - honest, genuine, legit. So overall it's a little better. NEW CONTENT. Have a read?

# Part One: CHILDHOOD 

##  Many of our deepest motives come, not from an adult logic of how things work in the world, but out of something that is frozen from childhood.

##  Chapter Two:

_" Childhoods never_ _last_ [unchanged], _but everyone deserves one."_

* * *

 

I would like to say I was calm and composed. I was not. I ruminated a _great_ deal. Thoughts of asylum seekers, _my parents_ , refugee's and immigrant's children and their fates swarmed me. I wretched - covered my mouth- held my breath.

 

I could tell, distantly, for a moment, what was happening with me, but the burning of my eyes seared then, too. So I closed them and let _it - the awareness_ pass; let the old pain and distress wash through me, and breathed it out...

 

...1,2, 3. And in - 1, 2, 3, 4...And, out- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

 

I carried on until the tide had finished with me.

I stared at the door little one - Harry- and the child psychologist had gone through and waited, shaken and worried. I would wait. 

*****

...(Literally two or so minutes later -)

My face fell into my hands, which then covered my eyes and smushed my cheeks (for two breaths). With a frustrated but quiet 'arghh', I sat cross-legged in that corridor. (I was not quite leaning against the wall, but I was out of the way, in case someone wanted to get through, so it didn't matter. ) My hands still covered my face. I rested my elbows on my thighs and thought. Eyes closed.  

So. I ruminated a lot. 

Among those nebulous, buzzing _hornets-for-thoughts_ , was an argument.

Somewhere, a debate was happening inside of my head. The question, a wisp, now clung. Could I really..? Should I? It - _this_ - was a big decision. In some cultures, most obviously via the Chinese proverb, when you saved a life, you become responsible for it thereafter; in this case, that would _literally be the case_ , too. More immediate and extreme, perhaps also. Because little one was a child, a whole person, blooming, fragile, vulnerable. Growing- and the connotations only multiplied from there. I always felt people had children so easily, when it was such a monumental task.

Part of me wanted to cry; I felt like I couldn't breathe; it wasn't _fair_ \- this was hard. But I knew life wasn't always fair. My eyes sharpened, I felt it, at that moment. I like to think that when they do that, my head's paying attention and my heart's toughening back up or fazing back in. Because - Wasn't _fair_ for me? To me? Was nothing new. I was -technically- an adult. Harry? That sweet, little boy? He was so scared. He must be. I sat up and _looked,_ through one of the small windows beside the door at him.

Black, fluffy hair. Like a pom-pom, stuck out and around.

Small, still curved-over body, thin. Hunched on the end of the little plastic chair. But making eye contact with the good doctor.

Besides, that wasn't even considering...that is, if what I _suspect,_ regarding little one was true...Swamped in worn, faded clothes. ...He was still a little sooty. And a child; and they should be protected, full stop. Innately, that foreboding knowledge settled in me. Through this, I felt my eyes narrow and 'harden' ( _again_ , I would have to **_watch_ ** that. Hah, watch). I suppose-  that expression is akin to when someone is _serious and angry_ or ready for a confrontation.  _An unfriendly person here,_ my eyes said.  _Dark thoughts **here**_ , I sought to relay by my eyes and face.

I considered the thoughts of my elders and friends, then and authors whose words had touched me - left a mark. They brought up quotes in my mind; words from people who shared their own beliefs, their own little wisdoms, passed down. Some were condensed, plucked to what they were. ...Others were languorous and all the more beautiful and appealing – but not necessarily true- for it. Some were ancient, aged-well, in the form of proverbs, that had stuck with me, called up, from the depths of that hollow, slick, cheap-but-shiny colander that I imagined was my mind. Or my mind’s eye’s representation of my mind. Somewhere, someone was trying to tell me something. Maybe. 

Previously, being born in a more....modern/idealistic/understanding and also: more multi-cultural society...but also being half-Indian (with a bindi, not a feather) was sometimes hard. It came with its own challenges.

That I was borne this time as a 'full' Indian; that this time I was in the West presented its own challenges. I was female again. We had not travelled beyond holidays sometimes.

 

My parents had moved to the US, and I opted to stay here - in this life - because it was kinder to them and I had options they did not, by being born British. I had, strangely, no other siblings or extended family - that I knew of anyway, that were alive. There was a great-uncle, somewhere, who had fought in the  Second World War and another who had fought in Grindlewald's war against them, succinctly/successively. They died, as far as I am aware. The front was unkind. A great-uncle, somewhere in France, when he inevitably was killed. The front was brutal -especially closer to Germany and Eastern Europe- but it wasn't Grindlewald's war that killed him; he'd no protections, at the time in a foreign land, as an Indian man in France against the nazi's. Afterall: the non-magical side fought too; he died in the Second World War as France was occupied. The nazi's hatred against anyone outside their parameters of the 'Aryan' race only emphasized commonly held belief: that a man's value greatly depended on the pigment of his skin.

We didn't know how the other died. There was no one to ask. Who cared that another Indian man died? Just that his name faded on the family tapestry and was crossed out in the scroll one day.  

It was a familiar, bitter pill to swallow when I found out. (Thoughts of the whole ancestor's name-stealing -the Aryans, who conquered and integrated with the Indus Valley people to become my people- and the swastika, oft known as the 'nazi symbol' were always saddening but...I tried not to let it be bitter. Bitterness did me no good; it was before my time, and in a couple hundred years we'd all be dust anyway).

...

Later, whilst meditating one morning, I will think back to that afternoon in winter, in that corridor. And the disorganised thoughts that acosted me will be weighed and rolled over. But only for a little while - a half hour max (kids take a lot of work). The thoughts were something like:

 'Life is not about _finding_ yourself. It is about _creating_ yourself.' That was said, or written, by a person called Lolly Daskal. I must do what I think is right, and keep trying; karma does not necessitate destiny or fate. I went through and periodically consider myself an existiantial nihilist, in that fate and destiny do not really exist unless you will it to - self-fulfilling prophecy, for example. Will and Karma and duty are real, and our existence has meaning that _we_ give it. So we don't find it, we make it - and that, the choices and our behaviour(or acts) and beliefs make us who we are. 

I let the voices of my thoughts - old and worn, well known and memorised, as well as new interesting considerations and applications wash over me as I listen…and think...' **Always** do something [every day] that **scares** _you_ …( **Nothing** in the world is so common as unsuccessful people with talent…' so try!) - Something I remind myself of now, I find. If I want to be my best, the best version of me, then I must try to be more - and if I am scared right now, that's okay - be brave. Try. Why am I scared? Why am I nervous? What do I want? Is it worth it? Of course. 

' _Try_ not to become a person of **success** , but... of **value**.' That one was ~~by Albert Einstein…~~ obvious; a few words to describe the values I want to have, build on: karma, dharma, ahimsa, hardworking, honest, kind, smart, intelligent, brave, problem-solving, optimistic. And, I remember -  some things I had mused about before, that stuck with me, but were actually quotes, snippets I'd heard at poetry readings, or whilst reading aloud myself.

I sniffled, pressed my lips together and made a promise: I'd try. I'd try very hard, not to go into justice mode, or self-righteous mode, if every I meet or have to talk to the little one's previous family. Just no. I'd remember. But their avarice would do no further harm - and I stopped. 

I couldn't think about the - the  _possibility_  I'd been unable to bring herself to ignore or pretend wasn't there. Harry, the little one, his clothes hung off of him. He had little to no baby fat on his face, legs or wrists, from what she'd seen. He was sweet, and shy, and so very cute - but he shies away from men and thin, older women. He shied away from loud adults. I swallowed.

 _...Love is the seed in you of every virtue_ (Purgatorio, Canto 17). -Those were lines from Danta Alighieri in Divine Comedy - and yes, I couldn't think about this now, but I would (later). Now, I needed to remember that love is in every virtue or kindness; and that if I wasn't careful, it can also seed all the darkest emotions too.  _…Thinking should be your capital asset_  -misquoted but from Abdul Kalam - and I would remember that. Think. I had burnt that into my brain a long time ago. Along with … _innovation distinguishes between a leader and a follower_  and… _you can do anything but not everything… - ark, where was I getting these from I don't want to think about this no-_  something I'd learned the hard way, risking burn out or the idea never reaching the goal.

And a child?

The thoughts glide away - I envisioned a shock wave ring pushing leaf-detritus away, leaving the water clear -  and all is silent in my mind. The silence... it's like a fresh gust into a room dry from the summer heat.

Child - A child...Is one of the most beautiful ideas out there. They are a real-time, continuous, learning experience: sentient and emotive and irrational sometimes/seemingly. And fragile - the power dynamic leant to abuse on the parent's/adult's side if unwatched or with bad habits, like a lack of control or discipline...thankfully, simple habits that lead onto such behaviour I was without. I don't drink, smoke, do drugs -ever-  or swear. ...Although I had picked up the habit of intensity when speaking, which psyched people out, as a teenager - intimidation was not what she wanted, so she had to learn to tone that down. 

 _…It’s not what you (not just) look at that matters, it’s what you see (not just). I_  saw a child who needs care and has so much to give. Maybe it would be something he chose, but was this something she could do? 

For now, I would allow herself to think. 

*****

 In my faith, the point was to _save_ life - with capitals (Save Life); if I related it back to the proverb. Most people would maybe think of Karma, when thinking of Hinduism, but that's a reductionist explanation, if anything - only looking at reward/cost for the self, or the individual...which was selfish and also bad Karma, see? So it doesn't work that way. Maybe, you try something 'good'. But you do it because it's the right thing to do, or something that has to be done - someone has to do it, that sort of thing. But you think about doing it for your own ends and you'll cheapen it at best, and at worst 'earn' some bad for that selfishness, too. That's not to say you can't weigh up before deciding upon an action, of course you can, but you shouldn't help someone else for yourself and give the impression that you're doing them a favour only... But there was more to it than that, of course. This would be _responsibility_ (duty, or ' _dharma_ '); a _whole person_ relying on me, for guidance, protection, lessons, care, support, advice, basic rights - food, water, shelter, healthcare, so on. I paused as a peculiar feeling welled up inside of me. _Healing_. The child was _so timid_. I swallowed down and blinked harshly, then when that did not work well enough, bit my tongue. Crying would not help him. I bit my lip. Breathed out slowly(from my mouth, if you were wondering), then in deeply(through the nose). This was also adoption. Obvious, but important. A child.  The thought was uplifting - But this had to be ethical - someone else could provide these, too, or not; could I?

I took a moment of silence. 

I am alone here; single and female (the Dharmashastras, taken literally would look down upon this, but it was written by a man, though a sage, still but a man, who may have had a slight prejudice towards women), in the 1980's, of clear Indian heritage/features, female. All possible set-backs to potentially providing for the little oneThe female point deserved two mentions. 

But also, as a single female, I would have no traditional means of assimilating the child into the line of ancestors, the family. Traditionally, it was for the spouse to assemble kinsmen, to announce his initiation or make burnt offerings to the Gods in our heart of the home (datta homam, where we would burn ghee, clarified butter as a sacrifice by fire); children were had not just as a family obligation, or a completion of part of our dharma, our duties, our purpose, but also to help keep our ancestors' sparks(atman) nourished(called pinda and tarpan, for the souls of our ancestors in this life)...honoured, call it what you will, some believed. This was according to the Dharmashastras, a role for boys to do. There would be no-one to recite the Vyahritis. Funeral rites were not really applicable here, but had to be helped by the menfolk of a family as they nourished souls, to ensure the departing soul reached the correct destination. They were the link on the Earthly plane of existence.  

Religiously the meaning behind the words would support me, I believe. There is not really a question, almost - but I need to be able to provide for him, to not cause him any more mental/emotional harm, too (ahimsa- non-violence). I would need to teach him about his likely faiths also, so he could choose. I mean, we are encouraged to adopt needy or in trouble/distressed children. That was in the sacred texts ( _unbidden, the  thought came: so everyone else can shove it_ , harsh but true). The other stuff was from Sages, though bits from the scriptures also - in the stories, the Epics. The Puranas have tales: of Lord Krishna (his foster mother was Yashoda, from his mother Devaki); in the Mahabharata Kunti was the daughter of Sursen adopted by his cousin Kuntibhaj; Sita (from the story of 'Rama and Sita') was adopted by Janaka. 

The only place where success comes before work is in the dictionary, I have many more miles to go before I can sleep, I can sleep when I’m dead, I should only put off for tomorrow what I can die today not having done; too many of us are not living our dreams because we are living our fears (eyes snap open). (Resolve and awareness supersede me; I am taken over). The road to success and the road to failure are almost exactly the same (sometimes). We become what we think about most of the time, and that’s the strangest secret (I feel joy well up, and a grin twitches at my lip; I don’t begrudge, have need to hide or miser any happiness that comes my way, so I let it out).

And finally, I spoke aloud, reciting, voice strengthening with that hearty resolve, but not loud, “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." 

_The Mother is the protector of the child (or son). She is called Sura, for looking after the child. "For the point of view of reverence for looking after due, a teacher is tenfold superior to a mere lecturer, a father, a hundredfold to a teacher and a mother a thousandfold to a father." Manu, Smriti said that._

I am resolved.

*****

The decision was obvious, looking back.

Even then, the choice had already been made for me; I just hadn't accepted it. I had to think it through. My morals would demand no less. I decided I would bring Harry home, and later if he would have me as family or guardian (that could mean not-family) – then he’d keep me, count me as one of his family and I would continue to protect, nurture and teach him to my best. I almost bit my lip, then didn’t. I paused mid-stride (power stride!). I carefully didn’t smile (see, control, me) – and then did, because joy is something to be cherished-by-use. I continued my thought process. But for as long as I’m with him, _I’ll give all I have to see him safe._ I felt the promise in those words, strong, heady…weighted. I squinted briefly – only a second had passed, and then –

A glow lit up the corridor.

...A _magically binding contract?_ I _hadn’t_ sworn on my magic (I didn’t know I’d had any to swear on or by in the first instance)! I’d just…sworn… on…“ _all_ that I am.”  I whispered. _Oh_. (Shit - wait no, that's fine.) I checked, rubber-necking, if anyone was looking through the small, gridded with plastic, windows at the tops of the white- off white with age- doors. No silhouettes against the glare from their lightbulbs wasting filters. Er. No sounds either. Oh. So…That counts, then. Good. I’ll make sure Harry knows that that’s possible, then.

Wait. Was Harry magical? Or had someone magical as family? Someone must have performed the magic - some ritual or enchantment (maybe...he'd kept something on him? An amulet maybe? ...Part of me doubted it: the evidence proved to the contrary so far). Before my brain - oh, my head- count whir again, I bookmarked it. For later.

As for the oath...I don’t imagine solemn oaths have an age limit as such, that’d apply to him, what with his magical capacity being on the larger side. Was size indicated by age a rule not just to humans/beings then?

There was nothing left to do here. I knocked upon the door.

*****

They’d separated us, when we’d first come in, just barely shared the naked bones of the matter, just barely passed our introductions. The man who gave us a ride had been taken in first, just before us, and left not five minutes later. He’d wished me, us, luck and said, with a comforting gesture, a hand on my shoulder, and a tip of his imaginary hat, and a wink and smile for the little one, for Harry, “that’ll do, lass; there’ll be no need ta panic. These gaffers’re dec’nt folk, they are ‘n’ they won’ hur’ you or th’ kid a bi’. Chin up.” His accent had thickened, with the relaxation, strangely enough.

I thought accents only do that when a person’s nervous or angry. And with that said, he’d moved as if he’d be off.

 

I must’ve said that aloud, though, because, and I could feel Harry relaxed, now a bit, looking curiously elsewhere, he shifted with his whole body, so that not just his head turned, and the boy was on my lap and halfway into the too-soft cushiony seated setty’s, curled up, bundled up, against my side (a nice policeman had offered me and thankfully given him a thick wool blanket). Harry wasn’t paying attention. Anyways, because the elderly man leaned in slightly and said, in undertones, “know what you’re goin’ t’ do wit’ ‘im?” He gave me a cautionary, wise look. “You can choose to keep ‘im, and likely they’ll let you: no clue who he is, do they have. But” and here was the reason for the caution and weariness peaking out there, right here, “it don’t look good, a single woman, young, beautiful –“ here he smiled a little, a little apologetic at the nerve, perhaps, “woman..” and here he got strict again, and he’d be wincing if he were anyone else, perhaps, “of colour too” unspoken was Harry was Caucasian. Very much so. “with a child.” Got it. You can have him, but there’ll be trouble; the petty kind maybe, that pecks at you or cuts a little at a time til youre maimed and you didn’t notice til too late and you’re scarred or bleeding all over the place. Or the dangerous kind. His lovely eyes were weary and sad. He just looked at me. I think he saw in my face my choice. I felt my lips thin a moment, thought it through : he’s helping me, hes only helped me, he’s telling the truth. And I am a truth seeker. No lies. He didn’t deserve my spine at him. Then un-thinned them, showed him my chin and then smiled, letting it gentle my eyes after a moment.

 

“I have decided, though thank you. …Thank you.” I smiled wider, squeezed his hand gently between two of mine. “You’ve been very kind; I’m glad to have met you, Sir.”

“no, no, none o’ tha’, okay?” He smiled, relieved. Winked at Harry again, ruffled his hair gently. Nodded to the officer patiently and politely waiting just outside our huddle’s hearing range, and he was off.

 *****

 

Harry looked up. The officer, Sam, looked at me sideways, then got up and welcomed me in, with a reaching hand, though why it was out, stretched towards me I had no idea – did he expect me to hold it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Thoughts, feels, questions, impressions?  
> Question: Should I get rid of the excessive tagging and just have warnings for triggers in end notes/beginning notes? 
> 
> References to things above: 
> 
> There are many quotes this chapter; listed (after the Divine Comedy by Alighieri) in order by whom, and that are equally not mine: Kalam, Jobs, Anonymous, Vidal Sassoon, Robert Frost, Unknown, Picasso, Les Brown, C. R. Davis, E. Nightingale..... Also some other bits cut out but that our OC thought about:
> 
> …For now we near the stream of blood, where those who injure others violently, boil (Inferno, Canto 12);
> 
> Your avarice [and wrath, I add mentally even in my own mind, a soundless whisper] afflicts the world, it tramples on the good, lifts up the wicked (Inferno, Canto 19)…  
> 


	3. Chapter Three, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes: (blacked out)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I'm writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shovelling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.” -Shannon Hale
> 
> \- Very much how I feel with this chapter right now. I have taken for-ever to write this. Listening to poetry, helps, the rich language and flickering through funny stories too. Thank them. Also, I shamelessly take this style to include upon my own: from ‘The Amulet of Samarkand’ by Jonathan Stroud. I want to create a world.

 

 

Raising Harry

“ Do not raise your children the way [your] parents raised you; they were born for a different time.”

* * *

 

Chapter Three, Part 1:

_Gifts are dangerous when they are given [too often] but not earned - ICARUS_

 

* * *

 

I felt...floaty. A bit fluttery. Giddy, happy, nervous; a bit like after a long-distance run gone well, that strange high - as I stared, coming back to the present, at the child detritus around me.

 The room I was in - primarily the Little One's, when he was ready- was currently in the process of creation. A safe-haven, a clearing, a meadow, for his identity (person). Where he could breathe and just be. Magic, learning, safety, dreams, rest. That was the dharma of this Room and it's guardians. I am magic, but not all guardians are from it: spirituality, faith has its own power, sometimes. 

The floor, teak, is covered in fluffy shag-rug and like the walls is a soft blue(duck eggshells I think..?). Where it's not bordered in white that is. There are wall length shelves, of differing depths, joining the floor as storage space for the twin woven baskets, as drawers. 

These shelves, to take example of  _just why_ this house was to be considered strange, exemplify to an observant - or nosy- onlooker what about the current owner -soon to be occupants- were...different.

There is a shelve there just for any incense and for purifying and healing crystals. These crystal clusters can be spotted throughout the abode: they adorn the house, subtly. Another holds some 'child things', away from reaching hands but not magic: wipes, creams, powder and nappies for toddlers (he should have learnt by now, but he will) and assortments. These will include a photo-album I hope to collect for the Little One, of his parents and what was good in their lives - friends, family, photographs and paraphernalia - anything we can get ahold of theirs, respectfully, appropriate for a child. The slats bordering the shelves and under them, around the crystal arrangements are carved with 'patterns' - runes, sigils. On another is a Stone Guardian, at the door, an Earthen Golem - or Gargoyle, as they are known as, amongst others. 

The baskets hold soft toys, slippers, socks, a woollen hat and an extra blanket. There is a magical mobile I have begun crafting: it will be filled with magical, non-magical and mythological (as well as possibly real creatures and beings - but not Beings; maybe for a couple storybooks?). They will all glow when in the darkness (a little at night) and be of colours vivid as oil paint amongst the Good. In the light of day, their glow re-charging for protections, never dormant truly is how it shall be powered usually. So far, Kurama-ji (कूर्म ) the World Turtle, will be there, amongst a mother Unicorn and her foal, an Elephant, Ursa Major, a Fox, an Oliphant, possibly...yes, possibly Jormungandr; maybe a monkey of some sort to accompany a Demiguise - an Orangutan? 

I sobered and looked at the small, worn iron beef-eater, _~~freely given in kindness from a child with so little who offered so much.~~ _ One child’s toy, slightly dented. Freely given. I felt a flush of wet heat behind my eyes, pressing my fingers around my face, against my mouth. The little tot, Harry, had it on him when he’d been separated from his family. Some family. Haven’t even reported him missing; a family whom, several hours later, had yet to report him missing. I bit my lip. That did not sound any better either. I felt my eyes narrow in suspicion, clearing my blurred vision.

I felt my lips thin. The toy – one of his only, or simply a favourite? Was in bad shape. I bit my lip before sighing. When that did not work, I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath in, finding my centre. Only then did I allow my eyes to snap open and to think again. Well, whatever the reason, I _had_ been awarded a court order for looking after him, being somewhat aware of him and the strongest point in favour of this ruling: was Harry displaying an abnormal willingness and well, familiarity on top of this, with me. I was willing and able, so once the Right Honoroble Judge had determined that final part I was granted -thankfully- full parental. 

 

Gifts are dangerous when they are given but not earned. – Icarus, indeed. 

 

* * *

 

[Extract from a future Chapter: ‘Free Will’]:

_After the 1 st wave, Pre-Harry Era._

Do you know how strange it is, to speak in your _own voice_? The soul is eternal, though[1] they say the spirit lingers/though the body withers. Sometimes, so do the memories.[2] See imprints unto the environment we exist on: the physical and sometimes, psychic plane. We speak[3] a certain way.

 

It is not something -just, or- anyone would know. Unless _they_ had reincarnated. I remembered how to talk. So I talked. Exactly how I would have in my own body. Except, I wasn’t in my own body. These were not my vocal chords – or, my old ones.

 

 But…this was also my body. _My_ body – just not my first; I had grown in this one from the womb too; it modulated, subconsciously. [4] An instinct amongst many we are born with – and that, I noticed. It was different than my ‘norm’[5]. My new body had to adjust further to meet the perception, expectation – whatever you want to call it- of my mind.

 

That was going to take some experimenting, I noted.

 

 

So it felt almost wrong to hear my own voice.

 

 My body indeterminately mine and not/of questionable possession/autonomy. My mind felt awash with a palpable disconnect. My blurred sight found nothing interesting. I felt distanced, disinterested, from the world.

 

 

The wonder was gone.

 I allowed that self-wrecking thought to exist within me for five whole seconds, then moved on. 

But it would be found again. No, no, come now girl. That is far too much of a stolid viewpoint, a narrow, filtered, over-reductionist conclusion to deride from such a potentially lush existence. I could renew my mental – I paused, pondering the correct word for this…wholeness.

 There is just so much out there. So much - must not forget. And the goal(s), as always, remained the same: karmic balance and enlightenment and being good. To do no harm: why would I want otherwise? It would besmirch me, tarnish me, twist me and harm another soul - all of this in a way that does heal, but with difficulty and possibly not always in the same lifetime. 

In my past life, I had been a mage.

However, things were different there. From what I can gather, feel, sense, intuit – at least as far as my disciplined mind/behind my eyes can take me, magic systems varied. Nice to know.

The scene reminded me - and I flashbacked to where myself and five others used a protection spell for the sixth, centre ring, whilst the -late- seventh watched on, wretched and wracked with agonised sobs at our ‘sacrifice’ (it was a gamble though…and not in favour of …our continued existence. Or life, even). We did live. We came back. But she hadn’t read our letter/note – so she hadn’t read to move us over, one position to the other, so we came back in the wrong bodies. Figuring that out was difficult. There was a ‘cat; dog; lazy ‘realist’ whom was high and functioned only high; the liar/illusionist/espionage one and me- fear based lead’. What?

But they might not vary that much.

 

* * *

 

_Picking a Place_

 

 I had lived in a flat, which was not as difficult as it would be in years time, in London. Hm, I need a place - my flat could hold Harry in it if I squeezed of course, but that just was not a feasible long-term plan. Plus that would undoubtedly be a tally point _away_ from keeping Harry, I acknowledge. So, a new place- it needs to be for Harry too. The house would have our bedrooms, toilet and a bathroom and shower, ideally, kitchen and living room obviously. A dining room or back house would be cool - or room for one, or a greenhouse or conservatory as well as keeping a garden...I wouldn't make the same mistakes many make: we would have a study room so that there was a place to work for the both of us.   _Oh_ , I thought quietly. I had already chosen, then: it was to be a house. Okay, then. Thinking suddenly on a magic school and owls and a letter, confused, addled, with an overly-complex address; something like ' _Mr. H. Potter, The Green Manchurian Block C, Floor 28, Suite 3, Room -_ ' was just the thing to crack through the carapace of craggy-ness I'd swamped in.

I blinked, placing the blue flask cap-mug away in the cupboard, continuing to the next point, which was an itinerary: which involves looking into primary schools, safe areas, with no/few pubs, with parks and parks with play areas possibly with a lake and trees to climb, that sort of thing. Where's my San Fransisco? Where did I put the 'A-Z'? And the 'Yellow Pages' - I'd be in need of speaking with an estate agent, I'd imagine. I'd rent this flat; it's a good site. Good thing I'm a bibliophile. 

 

I sighed and got to work. 

 - _with good shops, good food shops and things to do, decent people, and cool places – though, being London, it will have had that already-_ The train of thought continued, undeterred, conditions upon any place must be able to meet for the child and myself, as if uninterrupted. My brain, sometimes. I face-palmed.

* * *

 

_A little while later, after the Property Talk:_

Harry was a quiet child. The Local Authority has given me /awarded me custody, temporarily - or well, until further notice, to be extended unless Harry's guardians were found, or he spoke of them. For saying so little that said a lot. If, after the grace period - of a year, I was told, they do not speak up or can not adequately show they have attempted to find him, reasonably, then full parental ('in loco parentis') custody in the form of guardianship will be bestowed. With full parental rights a viable option depending on how well things can go, a short time after, will be awarded that is. In the meantime, I will be able to act in loco parentis - but it might be that he is taken from me.

 

Harry hasn't spoken up about who cared for him yet. If that wasn't obvious enough, no bolo's or letters or pleas over the TV have been made through any of the normal channels - the police or media, by his previous guardians. PC Denning our local contact, would work to keep eyes and ears open and let me know if anything concerning Harry cropped up. 

 

They...didn't seem to have done much guarding. The uncharitable thought halts there because child or no, adults though they are- I aim to not judge yet. I get to take him home. I am grateful, and cautious, nervous but also there is something soft as cotton, fluttering in my chest, warm and so so gentle for this little child. I hope to give him a good home. I hope nothing bad has befallen them. 

 

He is playing with plastic, beaten blocks, in primary colours. I gleaned, inside the kid's room in the Child Centre that had just finished testing him. It was old, but comfortable. Thin but patterned carpets, a hospital's clinical distinct feel to it, with a large round white table covered in A3 papers ready for drawings from troubled, happy and quirky children alike: there were pens thick and various in colour in cups at the centre, and pencils for colouring, as well as shading pencils. The nice lady came to speak with me, with Harry so occupied.

 

I leaned further against the door jamb before stepping back from the doorway into the corridor (I was spending an awful lot of time in corridors, wasn't I ? I amused myself briefly with the thought. Always in the middle of going somewhere. Which was better than being stuck.) The nice lady was coming to speak with - or to- me, which could only help. I was relying on her insight here. At the same time as the thought was in my mind/ with the thought still in my mind, I looked up, from the fun floor, and unintentionally caught her eyes - I smiled, but felt it fade, like a flower without the light withers. She looked calm, but I had some experience with people. She would be smiling or her eyes would crinkle, or lips would not be slightly downturned like that, not someone like her, in this occupation, who obviously - from her office and her manner previous, and the obvious enthusiasm of her co-workers when 'reassuring' me on her character and reliability, their obvious joy- loved her job. She had something bad to tell me. Or no, something worrying but not unexpected - she was not shocked blank, but grim a bit. Grim. Hm, it fit. I smoothed the worried look from my face.

 

She had reached me and obviously I had not done as good a job as I hoped, because her arm came up and held mine, which was wrapped around my abdomen, clasped it, squeezing gently, before letting go. I felt some fondness flush through me. Such a kind one. I breathed. Slow deep breaths.

She looked at me, intentionally making eye contact now, and smiled (obviously the good news first), "he's a good child." She comforted. I blinked.

"I know." The small smile fought it's way onto my face, and without my conscious okay - I found my eyes unconsciously glanced where he last was. Hmpf. Quite without my permission, mind. He still hadn't noticed. I let the reluctant smile grace my face. I have a long face, which suits misery - funnily enough- though no one had told this to my face before, I thought so myself. That tenderness warmed and gentled my eyes. "He is a good boy" I said, looking back, caught. Might as well own it.

I shrugged, a little sheepish. No need to play casual now. "He's sweet." I defended. "But I know he's good." I let the sentiment show more on my face. Unspoken was that she had no need to convince or tell me. 

Oddly enough, she looked amused. Her face looked a little...elfen to it at that. Good for her, I couldn't help but think; the children would just welcome that face, one of their own, only full grown.

 

We shared that silence together.

 

It was brief. Sobering, she continued, "the- Harry, is showing signs of trauma. Not-" At my alarmed look she hastened to reassure, flustered, only in a terrible way, " with the right amount of work, it can be combated. "

My trust withdrawing, she must have seen the disbelief in my face because her platitudes, barely begun, stopped. Thankfully. Frankly, she spoke, " he _is_ showing signs of trauma from before the accident. It's nothing concrete - we don't know how far it goes. How bad or not, it could be. But rather," and here she got a peculiar look on her face, before becoming frustrated slightly, "Harry has an absence of certain behaviours, and is exhibiting several indicators -

 which is not a lot, as I said before- but show something has been not well in his home life previous."

"But! He is still young, which makes it easier in some ways a-"

 

"- and more difficult in others," we both finished. She beamed, relieved to be understood. The smile dropped faster than an achor; now was inappropriate to smile.

 

I nodded. Okay. The little one had some issues to work through. We could do that. Now...only to get that information. Eyes narrowing slightly, focusing in on her, I hawk-eyed her, raising my right brow. 

 

Seeing my look, and reading it correctly, she continued hurridly, " I will detail all that I find in my full report for you - "

 

"Thank you. Could you highlight, take not of, -or tell me, any triggers or important potential things to watch out for or keep from doing?" Had to make sure I get all the trigger bits out of the way. Art would help that, but I wanted the little one to feel safe and cared for; not trapped. 

 

"Yes, he seems to ...like smaller spaces; or rather not like big, open areas; the complete dark…” And like that it went.

 

* * *

 

 

So - It went this way.

 

Harry had fallen asleep in the new second-hand car, on the ride back. He was very much awake now though, Namita thought, laughter tinging her thoughts. The boy was practically vibrating in his seats.

...He was actually vib- bouncing. A little. The cutie.

 

"Harry," I called, soft and happy, "we are here now." I opened his side of the door, and took him out of the baby-seat. Holding him and then his hand once he was on the floor. He clutched my fore and middle fingers tightly. Other hand twisting, tight on a corner of his T-rex tshirt. Which actually fit. I smiled at the little face peering up at me. 'Yes, this will be your home too.' I could not help but give the silent admission, because: that look! Gods above me.

He was gauging my reaction, I felt with familiarising fondness. I walked us up to the door. 

We passed the tomatoes, the flowers and little though he knew it - that anyone other than myself would know, for some time, a little herb garden. The brook bubbled softly, gurgled really to dispense the energies and promote peacefulness. 

I paused at the entry-way. I looked down at this little, sweet, curious inspite of his background, ball of light and fluffy haired child, smiling, the scent of honey-suckle permiating the air and crouched in front of him. I cradled, half holding his hands.

 

Harry looked curious despite himself, only somewhat meeting my eyes. Slowly, with my right hand, I raised my hand, I tipped his head up, gently, slowly, from his chin with my first two fingers, before replacing the hold. He met my eyes. Good boy, I thought. "This is going to be your home. I hope that you like it Harry - " At his widened eyes, awestruck, and disbelieving still, oh sweetheart, we had a long way to go, I continued, intoning carefully and gently, "-  if there is anything you would like to change, in your room especially, then let me know, okay, tot?" I finished a little happier - resisting the cheerfull default, trying to maintain a more serious tone, so that hopefully he would believe me: or believe me more quickly.

 

"Okay! Let's go in then."

* * *

 

Harry still held my hand - right this time- as I unlocked the door, tardis blue, slightly behind me. I checked to make sure he was okay. I think he was holding his breath.

 

We walked in. A high-pitched gasp sounded behind me. Despite myself, my lip twitched on one side.

 

And it went in this way. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Years passed. Let me tell you how they flew. 

 ----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Edit 2: The middle and end was not so bad, though I had to cut off someplace, the next chapter is begun.  
> Also I shamelessly take this style to include upon my own: from ‘The Amulet of Samarkand’ by Jonathan Stroud. I want to create a world.  
> The quote after the chapter title (Raising Harry) is from 600 AD on a tablet, from Ali bin Abi Taleb supposedly. 
> 
> -Edit 3#: 04/11/17 need to finalise this chapter but have a long way to go. Still a WIP. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Trying a new format - gah)
> 
> [1] I would suggest a song -what I listened to at one point in the beginning: Han Soo Ji- Winter is coming GOBLIN OST
> 
> [2] That was a reference to reincarnation: just so you know.
> 
> [3] Hehe- oh, don’t mind me…the resonance is just killing me. Do you know how many old souls there are, that forget? How many people actually are reborn with some facsimile, some caricaturised carcass of memories of an old life, the affect those impressions have on a younger mind..? You’ll see: read on.
> 
> [4] Think of an amnesia victim who still has habits they follow, little mannerisms or a set same vocabulary, even without the memory. Or a similar fixation or fascination of subject once (re-) introduced to it.
> 
> [5] My …previous norm?


	4. Chapter Three, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist as written   
> [1] titanic- hymn to the sea  
> [2]Epic Orchestral cover – lion king parademics  
> [3]Gladiator- now we are free

Raising Harry:

* * *

Chapter Three, Part 2

_On Actually Raising The Child_

* * *

 

Contrary to what you may have possibly concluded, I have not avoided the British Wizarding World. As such. I have ventured there, on a few occasions but intentionally they have been brief, strict visits. I did not want to risk becoming a regular, predictable or remembered. Though initially, growing up here, that was for an entirely different reason than you likely could ever suspect. After all, I did not expect Harry-child coming into my care.

Namita sat. The floor, softwood, was covered with squares of shaggy rugs.

Namita stared at the assembled mess in front of her. Okay. Obviously, she was going to need some tools. Sighing, she tucked her errant fringe- outgrown now- behind her right ear as she got up. Time to get the kit.

 

Turning left down the short corridor, she took the route through the living room/kitchen combo to the cupboard in the utility room. Theseus gleamed, a bright poppin' candy apple red. If he could, he'd rumble-growl in pleasure, 'useful again...'. But Theseus was inanimate. So he couldn't. Plenty of objects in Namita's house, kept at least as long as Theseus, were in the same state: almost active, as so many objects oft left in the sphere of influence for so long of wixen did, in fact, develop such quirks: purring, spinning, only working if something else was/not used also, or for only one person specifically - who happenstance would have it, had the focused emotions upon them, and whom supplied the magic ambiently soaking into the fibers of it's creation. The wrought iron crows and elephant and dare it be acknowledged...Mandir statues, could all attest to this. A newborn was coming. And there would be new family arriving, too. The Mistress was preparing even now, for them.

 

The house, still silent and asleep would grow from the ambient magics of both, and so owe equal allegiance to both - but that was another story. Namita's previous apartment could only wish it had such sentience as that.

 

But the garden.... that is where summers, laughter-full and sun-speckled, moonlight dowsed, flower-abundant, wildlife-visited, would truly become magical, as was only right.

*****

Namita felt sad. This was okay, because the little one, washed up, fed and cuddled a little, was sleeping under his own watchful starry sky in their –it was decided, no way was she leaving him alone in their new home- room. So she could be sad for a bit.

There was bruising. He was so small. Even for his age. And so so delicate, - despite herself she felt some of the residual joy peak through her tiredness and dark thoughts, like the light he was.

Yes, he was delicate, but so very sweet; it felt far too early for it, but she’d gained, been gifted a small smile this day – when they spent some time in the garden amongst the flowers, and he was picking plants he’d like maybe. {1}

Namita was still in bed, sitting facing him on his own.

A breeze whispered into the room. It passed around her, she shivered. It was fresh but also..warm. Sweet scent, a flower of some sort fluttered in.

Little one’s hair ruffled.

*****

  There was a familiar warmth, come to give him a hug, in his dream, suddenly. But, Harry realised something, in the glowing greens and pinks, blues, whites, reds, and the dark browns, that like the light dappling through the tree he sat under with Namita, this warmth…it had always been there for him. Most noticeably when he was alone and asleep. He did not remember it awake, but maybe this time he would?

He smiled so hard his face hurt. Turning to Namita he blushed at the happiness there, smiling at him. She was laughing, getting up. She wore a dress unlike any he’d seen before ever- and no shoes, she asked him to come to her, to dance. Dance?

And he was small but it was so fun and they wiggled, and then she got out these wooden big circles and they wiggled harder to keep them at their tummy level. It was good. Then there was juice and biscuits and then back to the plants. There were so many! It was amazing. Aunt Petunia and others on the street have flowers, and he had thought they were a lot but they weren’t, they really weren’t! And there was a special bit of hanging green vines, like ‘The Secret Garden’ that they started that night with Namita– but he’s not allowed to go there quite yet. Soon, when he’s done here first. Because it’s a secret special place for them only and it’s magic.

He loved the plants. There were all sorts for all over different parts of the land, from small almost bushes – moss and liken- on rocks and walls, little ferns with curly fluffy bits that had been around since the Dinosaurs or maybe earlier, delicate little flowers, yellow and white – buttercups and daisies, and clover and mint, and shoots to show there are plants under the ground growing too! Like potatoe, or ginger- but Namita said that was a root. To really tall plants – trees. [2] There was something about one of them, a grey-brown leaning, deep-lined plant, that had branches and leaves half climbers on the fence around and along the green vines, with its purple hanging flowers…it shimmered a bit. It felt..more…awake? But he only noticed after watching a while. Namita let him, though she laughed – a good laugh, not at him but because of him, he found a secret in the garden already, wasn’t he clever- and said it’s part of the ‘Secret Garden’ bit. And, that there were more bigger and stranger plants hidden, just for us, that we couldn’t see without permission yet. She was hoping we could receive it together from the old tree (Purana ped).

In one of our quiet moments, she drew something into the dirt, it’s still there.

रक्षक

Rakshak

संरक्षक

Sanrakshak

*****

Namita in the real world, draws the symbol, under a strange compulsion/urge to do so, on his brow, next to the lightning [3] bolt. Namita jolts in surprise – Harry is smiling.

 *****

{ _Time Skip, a preview_ :}

 

Ms. N. K. Evans, preferably Namita, or possibly Nami, lived on number 21, Occam Road, Surrey with her son Harry Potter, and they were proud to say that they _were_ a little weird and strange, thank you very much. In that, they liked to do and try things, kept irregular schedules and very of a very…mixed culture. Particularly at first, to newcomers that is, the recognition of this newness was iterated, that: yes, Ms. Evans _was_ _aware_ that her son's surname was different, that was _very much_ on purpose -indeed, yes!

  After only a short while – not that “the Evans’”- as they were colloquially or jointly termed, were aware (or cared)- any twittering would usually sputter out, ending in a measly, insubstantial manner (if beginning properly at all).

 

 They were the sort of people who liked to do things, new things - a lot of activities, and could be seen helping out in the community locally and London as a whole from time to time (especially the Ms; for ‘causes and such’), even though they…it seemed, somehow… liked to keep to themselves a little, still.

 

 Last year Ms N. K. Evans partook in a cycle route for charity, and Harry had helped take part in a couple charity sponsored runs with his school and over the summer. They liked to help _and_ pursue what they liked, and this was very apparent in their behaviour. Likewise, clearly apparent, Namita adored her son. So, did Harry - and the dog.

 

The dog loved Harry a lot. Must have imprinted, or so the neighbours said.

The ‘poor boy’, some said.

‘That dog is huge – and a menace!’ _So_ unlike them, they said. ‘All big and dark and menacing, like.’

 'Definitely a mix of some sort - alsatian and Irish wolfhound?'

'Don't be ridiculous; clearly, it's Alsatian and dire wolf!' At the twin sceptical and incredulous looks, this was hastily amended, '- w-well, it's just that the dog is so big; long, but not bulky, like a wolf, right?'

The Evans, still the newest on the street some years later, had borne a good life and were good proper people and a good proper family, was the consensus,  generally speaking.

 

 A good life for themselves, they had made certainly but they also kept one secret, that was part of their lives, their very beings and lifestyles!

…And soon, it would be tested to new heights to keep(and not because of magic like you possibly thought).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ahimsa AU (DRAFT) (TBW)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052718) by [ShikiSha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShikiSha/pseuds/ShikiSha)




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